


Between the Shadows and Us

by runicmagitek



Category: Divinity: Original Sin (Video Games)
Genre: Bonding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Gen, Injury Recovery, Introspection, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 11:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17021430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runicmagitek/pseuds/runicmagitek
Summary: Ifan second guesses the path he follows now, but no matter where he chooses to walk, at least a certain wolf will always stay beside him.





	Between the Shadows and Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yopumpkinhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yopumpkinhead/gifts).



Embers swirled into the night sky to yield to the darkness. Another log to the fire for sustenance, the flames crackling with approval. Lone Wolves circled for warmth and their shadows danced with each flicker from the campfire. Beyond that? Nothing but dense trees and bushes lost to the night. Who knew what creatures called those woods their home, but that didn’t bother Ifan; the darkness they opted to lurk in did.

Another job well done. Simply a matter of returning to Driftwood to finish the contract. If only it hadn’t been off the map, but hard to refuse a job with a hefty purse dangling above it. He could celebrate with a proper drink with that kind of coin at his disposal. For now? The cheap wine—such a name for the acrid, flavored water was a disservice—was all he and the other Wolves had to rejoice with. As his kin poured themselves a third glass, Ifan’s initial drink remained untouched.

Drunken laughter intermixed with the fire and occasional breeze. Ifan paid little attention to their antics, focused on the gash carved into his right arm. A new scar to add to his collection if he wasn’t careful. He twisted his forearm and wrist; nothing broken, though the movement elicited a sharp hiss on his behalf. Blood failed to scab and continued to ooze—a finer scenario than how it gushed earlier that evening. The stitches sewn into the skin already broke and Ifan shook his head. The older Wolf who insisted on patching him up was no better skilled with a thread and needle than Ifan was. A fresh, tight bandage would do the trick until a proper medic could tend to it.

_Should_ _’ve been more careful,_ he told himself. _Know better, too._ _Guess that_ _’s what I get for assuming a lonesome cabin in the middle of nowhere wasn’t home to folk who knew their way around a sword… a dull one, at that._ The longer he stared at the wound, the more he sighed. _And here I thought the reward was based only on the trek out here._

“What’s the matter, ben-Mezd?!”

He flicked his green eyes up and peered past the flames. A toothy grin met him. Gods, he could almost smell the alcohol on his breath, too. Raising an eyebrow, Ifan waited for the fellow Wolf to continue his train of thought.

“Thought you’d be happy to sit down and relax after the day _you_ had!” He jerked his chin in the direction of Ifan’s cup. “Haven’t even touched your drink yet!”

His eyes returned to his arm. “I have standards.”

“Pfff, a drink’s a drink’s a drink! So long as it gets you less sober than you already are, then who’s keeping track?”

“Suppose _I_ am.”

“Tell you what—I bet that wine will help take the edge off of that cut up arm of yours.”

“I’d rather keep my wits about me.” Ifan rummaged through his pack. Perhaps bandages fell to the bottom. Surely he packed enough to aid him in his current predicament. “Don’t you worry; I’ll have my share of revelry upon returning to Driftwood.”

“Sounds like too long of a wait to me!”

Ifan sighed, both at the reminder of the week-long journey back to Driftwood and the realization he was out of bandages. “At this rate,” he mumbled to himself, “it sure is going to feel like it.”

The man opposite of him kept rambling. Ifan tuned him out while blotting the open wound with the older bandages. Easier said than done when the small camp was somehow louder than a busy tavern. It was a reminder that he wasn’t alone. Not truly, anyways. Always having company to vent to or bounce thoughts back and forth with had its benefits. Not to mention it solved the whole drinking alone dilemma; better to suffer in solidarity than in solitude.

But that night wasn’t a night Ifan dared to consume a drop of wine. Something struck a terrible note in him, one he preferred to smother and pray it passed instead of fueling it with alcohol.

“You hear about those new contracts rolling in?”

Ifan held his tongue. No amount of focus blurred out the voice beside him. He glanced at the origin and released a breath; at least the drunk presented the question to the woman on his right, who licked her lips and swayed. Nothing that warranted Ifan’s concern, thus he resumed staring into the fire.

“Think I did,” the woman said, a slight slur in her word. “Something about Sourcerers popping up into the mix.”

That much, however, garnered his attention.

“What do you make of that?”

The woman snorted. “A touch clear, don’t you think? Folk don’t trust them magisters to do the job, so that’s where _we_ come in.”

“I don’t know.... Sure, some of the contracts can be dangerous, but a _Sourcerer_? Think I’d draw the line there.”

“What’s it to you, then? Too scared they’ll turn you inside-out with a snap of their fingers? Not like our line of work is the safe and stable kind.”

“What, and _you_ _’re_ not scared at all? I’d rather take my chances with another man wielding a sword like me than one who can control more than I can even think of. Let the men in charge with more numbers and weapons handle them. _They_ can deal with that shit. Lock them all up and ship them to Fort Joy for all I care.”

“Tch, better off all dead, if you ask me.”

He clenched his jaw, inhaled, and gradually rose to his feet. Not a soul bothered to acknowledge him until he drifted from the edge of the camp.

“Hey, ben-Mezd!” one of the Wolves called out. “Where you off to?”

Ifan never bothered to look back. “Hoping to find some leaves to turn into bandages.”

“What, you’re all out? Think I got some in my—”

“No need.” Ifan waved a hand. “You enjoy yourself.” _Doubt you could find your own dagger on your belt at the moment._

The fire cast dim light across the outer perimeter. Its warmth faded after several steps and the darkness swallowed him whole shortly after. He checked behind himself intermittently, the camp’s distant glimmer still visible. Once the drunken chatter melded with the ambiance of nocturnal critters and occasional breeze, Ifan breathed easy again.

Goosebumps prickled his body in one, swift wave. He preferred to blame such sensations on his spontaneous venture into the night, but he refused to lie to himself. The distaste from his allies echoed in his mind. Could he still call them that? _Allies_? After what they rattled off? Would they speak differently if they knew what _he_ was? Ifan slowed his steps, groaned, and rubbed his eyes. If only he had a way to banish that moment without sacrificing his sobriety in the process.

Partial moonlight spilled through the treetops, enough to discern the dark shapes from the even darker objects and nothing more. Ifan paused in a clearing—or at least it appeared to be one, shadows be damned—and smoothed his hands over one another. Solitude never came easy. The constant flow of people coming and going in his life kept things interesting, but seldom did he pause to truly bask in quiet nothingness.

Then again, he never knew if he actually _would_ enjoy it. Maybe it was beneficial to throw himself into a crowd and drown the thoughts which only surfaced when others vanished.

_Best to keep myself busy,_ Ifan always thought when the momentum slowed down. _No time to be dwelling on anything but the moment._

Oh, if only he committed to that logic.

His mind drifted. It always did. Worse than the hateful words back at the camp and the darkness looming about was the reminder of what his life was before the Lone Wolves. Plenty asked for details which comprised Ifan ben-Mezd, but those chapters of his life were better left forgotten. Or torn from its spine to burn. Of all the questions he received, the one which continued to creep to the front of his mind was one only he asked himself: how was working for the Wolves any different than working for Lucian?

A sigh trembled past his cracked lips. Ifan collapsed to the ground and leaned against a rock or perhaps a tree stump. He couldn’t tell nor gave a shit. After several deep breaths, he extended a hand and waited.

It flowed through him like cool water in the dead of summer. His fingers uncurled and a subtle glow bloomed to life in his palm. No incantations, no complex gestures, no material components—simply a genuine wish.

The Source did the rest.

The pain ceased to exist in his arm. Whatever oozed out of the wound disappeared as it closed up. Warmth washed over him and relaxed every muscle. Flexing his arm, the Source faded from his fingertips, but the glow persisted nearby—it always did.

A slight smile surfaced on Ifan’s face. “Same as always, isn’t it?”

The glow inched closer until a familiar muzzle wiggled its way into his palm. All it took was a bit of Source to conjure Afrit. Had circumstances been favorable, Ifan was inclined to keep Afrit around no matter what. Such a notion wasn’t the wisest of plans, though those moments they were together in the physical plane? Ifan did well to cherish every second together.

Ifan chuckled and combed his fingers through Afrit’s spectral fur. No matter how many years they spent side-by-side, the soul wolf continued to astound Ifan, simultaneously tangible, yet ethereal.

Years…. It truly had been that long. Far too long, perhaps. Of all the variables throughout his life, the soul wolf remained the single constant. _Both a boon and a curse,_ Ifan thought, _but for now, definitely the prior._

“You didn’t hear what was said at the camp, did you?” Ifan smirked while Afrit flashed his fangs with a growl. “Guess I didn’t need to ask. Don’t let them bother you. I won’t let them do anything to you.”

Afrit whimpered and pawed at Ifan’s chest before licking at his right forearm.

“Yeah,” Ifan sighed out, “I know. You can’t do anything if they go after _me_. But don’t you worry; whatever happens to me, you and I will always be together. Nothing’s going to change that.”

Those brilliant blue eyes locked with his. He recalled the first time they locked stares like that.

Silent tears had stained Ifan’s face as he suppressed any potential sound. So much as a gasp and maybe the bandits would return and finish him off, just like his parents. All he longed for was comfort, to go home and curl up under his bed until the nightmare ended. But he was wide awake and nothing expunged the horrific events he bore witness to.

Then a cool tongue licked away his tears. A wolf pup climbed into his lap and braced its paws along Ifan’s shoulders. He didn’t dare question what brought the soul wolf into his life—not then, not ever. All that mattered was that he wasn’t alone.

So he hugged the pup and buried his face in that glowing fur until the local elves discovered him.

“ _You must do well to keep your soul wolf hidden,_ ” the woman who took Ifan under her wing once told him.

“ _But why?_ ” he asked, too young to understand, yet already observed more than most experienced in a lifetime.

She dropped to his level, smoothed a delicate hand over his face, and offered a wry smile. “ _Because not everyone understands the bond you two share. I would hate for bandits or worse to track you down because of what you are._ ”

It didn’t click until he left the elves to join Lucian’s command. Even then, people surrounded Ifan and bestowed endless praise, but none of them were like _him_. To be alone in a crowded room… he felt like that kid again, hiding beneath a wagon in hopes of survival and nothing else.

Again Afrit nuzzled into his hand. Snapping free from his reverie, Ifan slumped forward and ruffled the wolf’s head.

“We’ve been through quite a lot, haven’t we?” Ifan chuckled at himself. “Not sure this is the path I wanted to walk down, but I’m good at what I do and….” He sighed. “At least I’m in control of who dies by my blade. No more blind orders. Ever. I… wish there was something more to it than gold, but what other cause can there be for this line of work?” Afrit grumbled and Ifan laughed. “Yes, I know. This isn’t the Order. No one in the Lone Wolves has that much undying devotion, but it still has its place. And maybe one day? We’ll land a contract so big we won’t ever need to work again. Spend the rest of our days however we please. Probably away from those who’d scream until magisters showed up, but… we’d figure it out. We always have.”

Afrit curled up beside him, head in Ifan’s lap and eyes occasionally flicking upwards. Ifan settled a hand behind Afrit’s ears to scritch.

“But whatever happens?” Ifan tilted his head back and gazed at the waning moon. “At least we’ll be together. We’ll never be alone. I promise.”


End file.
